Day 955, January 23, 2023

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Year of the Rabbit

As the snow falls, 
the memory of younger selves, 
like a broken and bruised banana, 
the salvaged detritus of previous jobs, 
a yellowed piece of plastic.

Everyone waits in line, 
everyone celebrates differently, 
everyone lingers suspiciously on faces they don’t know. 
At the end of the line is pizza. 
At the end of the line are chopsticks and fortune cookies. 
The volunteers ladling small portions have name tags that say, 
Volunteer.

I cannot fathom murder. 
I cannot fathom the end of life. 
The instant appearance or disappearance 
is enough to inspire me to take up religion, 
again. 
What do you say to someone who has lost an aunt, 
a mother, a sister, a dance partner? 
Is it enough to listen?

In the year of the rabbit, 
none of the victims were below the age of 50. 
The DJ was playing a Light Rain in March. 
It was not yet February. 
Here there is quietness. 

Stillness. 

Ash in a cold stove. 
A frozen bottle of water left in the car overnight. 
Squirrel footprints in the snow. 
The sugar on a gum drop. 





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